The Bountyhunter
by I hart Booth
Summary: Booth has always needed to move. Move around, move out, move over, move past. But he's been standing still. Now, after watching the last of what he loves leave him...he decides to move on. Spoilers Killer in the Concrete. Boothcentric oneshot
1. Chapter 1

* * *

Booth sighed and leaned back against his kitchen counter, feeling cold and numb under the sickly yellow glow coming from the ceiling light. He sipped his cheap beer and his eyes absently roamed his cramped apartment, none of the lights were on and he preffered it that way.

When the moment came, as he knew it would, he took a second, to talk himself into staying. To recite to himself over and over that he couldn't pick up and go, sell everything he had and get out. To shake his head at the very idea of just pointing down the road and seeing how far he got. That it was absurd, and juvinile and impossible. And yet...the feeling remained.

Recently, he'd found his reasons to stay dwindling and his need to go growing. It was both liberating and terrifying. He tried every night to talk himself out of it, that he simply couldn't run out on his life…but that nagging little voice was inevitably there, taunting him with the words he didn't dare say.

_What life?_

He hated that question. Not because it was patronizing and self depreciating, though it was both those things. Mostly he hated it...because he couldn't answer it.

He used to love his job. Loved the thrill of the chase and the triumph of the catch. He never cared about all the rules and regulations, the mounds of paperwork or the crappy pay. He'd never **liked** any of it, but he didn't really mind. He hadn't really ever been overly fond of being chewed out by his boss, sort of like he had been today, but ... he'd always had her to run home to afterward. Someone to nurse his bruised ego and tease him back into normalcy. A box of Thai and a smile and he was set for the night because she was always there.

_But these days…_

With a satisfied sigh he finished his beer and tossed the bottle in the garbage, wincing as it clinked loudly against the other empties inside. He folded his arms and stared at the floor, his mind pounded as he forced himself not to fidget, his blood itching at his veins.

That old, familiar restless feeling was gnawing at him, whispering to the outer reaches of his conscious like a fly that refused to be shooed. It was as if he wanted to go everywhere at once, but couldn't quite make himself move. Caught between the urge to run and the duty-bound need to stay. He'd always gotten this feeling, 'itchy feet' his father had called it, the need to move on to bigger and better things. To never settle and never rest.

Itchy feet was what had pushed him to join the Army when the rest of the family said he was nuts. It was what wouldn't allow him to settle for anything less than the elite Rangers Infantry, when everyone else said he'd never make it.

And when he joined the FBI, he had to be the best, had to take as many cases as possible and he'd go to any lengths to solve them. Itchy feet.

And then he met her. He saw the same fire in that woman that burned slow and hot in himself. He could feel his dedication and determination, matched and surpassed by hers. And he'd allowed himself to fall for her. Hard and fast. Of cours he'd known she was damaged, that she had built up walls of concrete and steel over time to protect her heart, but he'd convinced himself he could handle it, that he could be her knight. Only, somehow, he hadn't managed to convince her.

Booth tipped his head back to look at the ceiling, to trace for the thousandth time that line of cracked plaster that ran from his stove to the refrigerator where it met the large brown spot of water damage from where a pipe had exploded last year.

He closed his eyes.

When she told him she was leaving, he'd pleaded with her to stay. When she'd remained stubborn and resolute, he'd shouted at her to listen. When she shut the door in his face, he'd gone to the gym and punched the body bag for hours on end, until all his knuckles were bleeding and his wrists were stiff and swollen. When he got home to find all her things gone, he'd drank himself to sleep. And the next morning, when he awoke to find it hadn't all been a dream, he'd cried. Now she was gone and he finally knew the truth. Now that it was too late to change anything.

She'd never wanted children, but he could live with that. Understand it even. And maybe he could have forgiven her for what she'd done...but she never gave him the chance. She'd made that decision for him and there was nothing he could do about it. Then or now.

Booth rolled his shoulders and rubbed his face. The air in the apartment was warm, hot even, but his skin was cool to the touch and he shivered involuntarily. He hated this numb feeling that had seeped into everyday. He hated the concerned looks laced with pity that were so casually thrown in his direction. He wanted his life back. And if he couldn't have that, then he wanted **some** life, something more than what he had now.And he needed to find it quick, because she'd been gone for nearly a month now, and that restless feeling she always chased away was back and stronger than before.

Booth straightened and took a long, deep breath. Crossing the room, he switched off the kitchen light and made his way blindly down the hall to his bedroom.

He winced as he pulled his shirt over his head and cursed to the empty apartment. His muscles were sore from too many long hours spent behind a desk. He opened his drawer and his eyes landed on the light reflecting off black metal. His spare .45, resting peacefully atop a pair of blue and red socks.

He looked up at his reflection in the mirror, half his face bathed in shadow, the other half a pale yellow, lit from the streetlight outside.

Unbidden, the memory of a short conversation he'd had almost a year and a half before flashed in his mind.

_Guy like you must be going crazy in the FBI_

He narrowed his eyes at his reflection, as if daring himself to think it. To do it. His attention drifted back to the gun, cold steel molded perfectly against his steady hand.

_Take a walk on the wild side. I have more fun, fewer rules and a lot of money_

Back at the diner that day Miller's offer had been hardly tempting. He' had his job, his son... he'd had Bones.

The operative word in all three cases being **'had'**.

His job seemed to aggravate him more and more by the day. He and bureaucracy had never really gotten along and he was much more useful with a gun and a car than with a pen and phone, but that was what he'd been reduced to. A desk jockey.

He'd had Parker then too, but these days he was lucky to see his son once every few months. It killed him every single day and there was nothing he could do about it. Rebecca had seen to that.

And Bones. Temperance. After she left she'd avoided him for three weeks. Then, when they got, worked, and nearly fumbled their first case, she requested a new liaison. When that didn't help, she'd accepted the offer to help on some six-month archeological dig in Africa.

_Well, if she gets to run…_

He turned the gun over in his hand, his fingers automatically shaping themselves around it and his forefinger rested against the trigger. He sat on his bed in nothing but jeans and watched the shadows from the tree outside dance across the wall. He contemplated his options for a minute in the clarity only the silence of night can bring.

_…a lot more fun…_

Minutes turned to hours.

_…a lot fewer rules…_

Before he knew it, it was 2am.

_…and a lot of money…_

It was the image of her 1965 Ford Mustang that finally got to him. He always was a sucker for classic cars.

After that, the decision was simple and painless. He smiled as if he knew a secret and he buried his new wounds beneath the old ones, hoping to never think of her face again. He crawled under the covers, asleep in moments.

The next morning at 6am Booth made a quick call to the FBI and showed great restraint at not leaving a detailed message for Marx, Cullen's replacement as of two months ago, as to where exactly he could shove his 'following protocol' speech. Instead he simply told them not to expect him in that day, or any day that might follow.

When he dressed, he skipped the dress shoes and went with sturdy black boots. Instead of one expensive gray suit, he put on a pair of dark jeans and a thick black belt Angela had given him and paired it with his Led Zeppelin shirt, one that stretched across his broad chest and biceps. He opted out of the flashy tie and replaced it with his old leather holster and pushed his .45 snugly inside it. He strapped the .22 from his closet to his ankle, shoved the .38 from his bedside table into the waistband of his jeans and after a deep breath, topped it all off with his brown leather jacket.

After a quick bout with gel for his hair, he slipped his dog tags around his neck, grabbed a few essentials from around his bedroom and bathroom and tossed them inside a black duffel. His face was set in a cool determination as he pulled out his cell, pushed in his wallet, gathered his bag, sunglasses and keys and headed for the kitchen.

He dialed the number on an age worn business card from his pocket and waited for the phone to be answered.

"Valeska, they let you out already?" He began with false cheer, "Yeah, the McNulty case…Listen, is that offer still good?"

A slow, cocky grin spread across his face and he quickly agreed to the time and place she set.

When he hung up, he pulled his badge and gun from the side pocket of his duffel and laid them on the table to be found whenever someone came looking.

He took a deep breath, his heart surging with adrenalin and apprehension as he turned and faced his life, his old life, one last time. He shook his head at emotions too deep to conquer as they welled up in his chest and pushed the last of the bad memories out of his head.

With a swift turn, he headed for the door, hesitating only a moment before reaching for the knob. He was about to say 'goodbye' to everything he'd ever known, but it wouldn't be the first time and now, he knew it wouldn't be the last.

The door shut behind him, hopefully for the last time. His boots echoed in the empty hallway as he clomped down the stairs. And just before the heavy metal door to the building slammed shut, the emptiness thought it heard laughter. Booth was a man who liked action, liked control and liked to keep the cosmic balance sheet even.

He could still catch criminals, pay penance to society. He could still make this world safer for the son he never saw, protect a woman he would never stop loving.

But now, he'd would have fun doing it.

* * *

**Okay, I know. Not my best work by any means, but I did try to make it as good as possible. I would have just left it to die on my hard drive...but I couldn't resist the urge to dress Booth up like a bounty hunter...admit it. Angry, scary I-have-lots-of-guns and wear a leather jacket Booth is hot. Dead stone cold ballin sexy, really. lol.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, I'm not usually the type of author that begs for reviews...but 2 is a little ridiculous. That's all I'm saying. Okay, well, they requested another chap at the Boneyard, so I figured I'd post it here too. Enjoy!**

Booth sat with his seat pushed all the way back and hunkered down low so as not to be seen. His black 1977 Pontiac Trans Am had not at the top of his new, expanded price limit, but he couldn't think of another car he'd wanted more. Ever since he saw Smoky and the Bandit the first time he knew he had to have this car…and now he did.

But his new life hadn't come without sacrifice. He never stayed in the same place for two nights in a row, and he almost never saw Parker. He was gambling again, and his companions tended to walk the line between right and wrong and he'd found himself crossing it more than he liked recently, but all that came with the territory.

He didn't have to wear a suit and there was no paperwork involved. That was a definite plus.

A shiny black .45 Smith and Wesson lay on his lap, his hand curled around it securely. He made a conscious effort to keep his heartbeat slow and even so he could hear everything happening around him. His heightened military trained senses often gave him an edge over fellow 'fugitive recovery agents', but today was not about reward money.

When he heard she'd gone missing, there hadn't been any hesitation. The thought of leaving her fate up to the feds never even crossed his mind.

She was in trouble, he had to save her. That was, had always been and always would be, how it worked.

A twig broke thirty paces behind him and twisted in his leather seat to see a squirrel scurry across the gravel road. He turned back around. He was out in the middle of nowhere, following a trail and clues as always. Now that he was out from under bureaucratic restraints, he was doing it faster and better than before. The feds were still a few steps behind.

On both sides the narrow gravel driveway as walled in by a clump of dense forest and out ahead of him was a cornfield and a broken down building. A barn or warehouse of some kind.

He squinted and his well-worn leather jacket creased as he leaned forward over the steering wheel. He counted three men. A cocky smile kicked up the corner of his mouth and he shoved the gun into his other holster. This would be easy. A quick check secured his other two guns and a knife in his boot and he was out of the car.

Cautiously approaching the dilapidated building, he crouched behind a black Jimmy truck. He took a moment, holding his breath, observing and calculating the best course of action, like a predator circling it's prey.

A greasy man with a beer gut and only half his teeth was sitting outside the only entrance of the building, the other two had gone inside.

If they harmed a single hair on her head, I'll kill them. It almost sent shivers down his spine the way the thought popped so easily into his head. That killing had become such a normality in his new life, he hardly thought twice. While he wasn't proud of it, that's what it took to survive fugitive recovery.

Booth made his way from behind the Jimmy around to the back of the warehouse. Unseen and unheard.

Kneeling behind the corner, he could see the greasy man, dutifully scanning the surrounding cornfield and forest for any sign of movement.

Thinking quickly, Booth reached to the ground and picked up a large rock. He threw it and it landed just at the edge of the line of corn, kicking up dust and gravel. He smiled as the greasy man got up and, as he predicted, started toward the rock.

Booth dashed from behind the corner to the warehouse and grabbed the man before he had time to breathe. One hand gripped his thinning gray hair, jerking his head backward, the other held a knife to his throat.

"You have the doctor here?" He said through his teeth. The greasy man didn't speak, instead started to reach for the gun in the waistband of his jeans. Booth's eyes flickered toward the movement and yanked on the man's hair while simultaneously moving his other hand to grab the gun and throw it aside.

"If you want to be able to talk when this is all over, I suggest you not try that again."

The man remained stubborn and Booth pressed harder with his knife.

"Okay Okay." He rasped finally, a strangled cry signaling his defeat. "She's inside. My partners…they're gonna kill her if she doesn't tell them what we want to know."

"And I couldn't care less what that is." Booth suddenly let go of the man's hair and used the butt of the knife to hit him on top of his head. He was out like a light.

Letting go of his body, the man dropped to the ground, crumpling like paper. He turned and went back for the gun. Taking a second to examine it, he found that it was still in good condition and shoved that one into the waistband of his own pants.

Just then, a woman's pained scream rang out and scattered the birds from nearby trees. Booth froze. Panic like he hadn't felt in years rose in his chest and sent his carefully maintained adrenalin skyrocketing. Not since the day he walked out of his motel room and heard a gun click beside his ear had his heart beat that hard and that fast.

Abandoning all pretense of cool professional strategy, he took off for the warehouse.

* * *

Brennan slowly lifted her head. Every movement made her head throb and her eye felt tight and swollen, but she wouldn't let them think they'd won. Her wrists ached and bled from behind tied tight behind her back and her knees and ankles were sore from behind in one position, but she refused to utter a peep.

She had cried out a moment ago when the sickening crack of her shoulder being dislocated rewarded the last blow, but she refused to let it happen again.

She licked her lip and tasted blood.

A hand grabbed her chin roughly and jerked upward, forcing her to look the man attached to it in the eye.

"Now, are you ready to tell us what we want to hear? Or are you still holding onto the hope of a rescue? 'Cause believe me baby, if anyone was coming after you, they'd have been here by now."

The man, Shawn, smelled of alcohol and he hadn't showered in days, not that she could really tell. The whole warehouse reeked of urine and blood.

For a moment her resolve weakened. He was right about one thing, no one was coming after her. At least, not in time. She'd pushed away the one man who was ever there for her unconditionally, who always saved her no matter what. And she regretted that decision everyday, but never more than she did right then.

But she'd be dammed if she let this animal know it. Brennan looked up and met his eyes, satisfied the head butt she'd given him was leaving a bruise.

"Go to Hell." She snarled through her gag.

Immediately his face scrunched up with rage and his hand moved back, ready to strike her again. She closed her eyes.

But instead of the blinding pain of another blow against her already fractured cheek, a loud noise like an explosion filled the air and the large room was flooded with light.

She opened her eyes to see that someone, a man, had kicked in the locked warehouse doors. Behind him the guard lay in a heap on the ground and she wondered, vaguely, if he was dead.

The man, a silhouette against the brightness outside, held a gun in each hand. One was trained on her assailant, the other searching for its target.

Shawn suddenly let go of her face and turned, pulling his gun out of his pants and pointing it at the intruder. He shouted something she was too hazy to make out, but the intruder didn't flinch.

It was then that she started to realize who her savior was, and she couldn't believe it.

Not after all this time, way out here…there isn't any possible way… She heard he'd disappeared without a trace after she left. People only heard from him once in a while and there was no way to track his movements…how could he have known? How could he have found her…why would he want to?

And it occurred to her that he would make fun of her at this moment, for thinking so much at a time like this. It was almost like old times.

* * *

Booth couldn't allow himself to look at her too hard, lest he lose his focus. He saw blood, that was all he needed to know.

The man closest to Brennan pulled out his gun and shouted at him to get out, but Booth only smiled. Just as he was about to say something back, he was pushed forward, tackled from behind and fell to the ground.

Found the other guy. He thought, wryly.

One of his guns was knocked out of his hand and he began swinging blindly at the man who'd attacked him. When he heard the satisfying thud and groan of a well-placed punch, he quickly brought his other gun up and cracked it across the man's temple.

Unsure of whether his wrestling mate was unconscious or dead, and knowing the other gunman was still out there, probably with his gun trained on him, he didn't stick around to find out. Half rolling, half jumping, he moved behind a tower of wooden boxes to his left. Crouched down low, he paused, catching his breath and checking his Glock, while the other gunman taunted him.

"Come to save your lady doctor did you? All by yourself, very admirable sir. You're not FBI…too quick and too smart. It seems you've incapacitated my two companions here. Well, it is hard to find good help these days."

Booth held his breath and listened carefully to the man's voice, tracking his movements. When he was in a spot where Booth knew he'd have a clear shot he jumped to his feet and stood out in the open.

Shawn saw him and raised his gun. Their shots rang out in unison and Brennan couldn't even find her voice to scream.

The dust cleared and Shawn lay on the ground, blood pooling near a hole in his head, light shining through a small hole in the wall near Booth's.

He uncocked his gun, slipped it into the holster and came to stand over Shawn's body.

"You talk too much."

He kicked aside the man's gun, just in case, and hesitantly, his eyes moved to Brennan. For the first time he was able to take in the full extent of her injuries. It felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

Her hair was mussed, her eye swollen and black. Her lips and right cheek were cracked and caked with blood. The skin on her wrists was raw and he could see tears standing in her eyes.

Instantly he was kneeling behind her. Untying her wrists and then her feet. Her wide eyes followed his every move, as if she still couldn't believe he was standing there.

Booth took a deep breath and with all the tender care she remembered, he gently pulled the gag from her mouth.

"Booth?" She squeaked, still unable to bring herself to move even now that she was free.

He felt his chest and face get warm, the way hearing her voice always made him feel and it was an odd sensation. So different from the apathetic cold he'd grown accustomed to.

"It's me Bones."

And that was it. She closed her eyes and collapsed against him, eight days of torture finally taking their toll. Booth hesitated, but when her tears began to soak his shirt, he snapped out of his shock and carefully wrapped his arms around her.

"I'm here Bones, right here." Without thinking he turned his head and kissed her neck, pulling her close, he wound one arm under her legs and hoisted her up, carrying her limp form out into the sunlight.

Brennan lifted her uninjured arm and clung to him, trembling with relief, fear and adrenalin and hoping he would hold her steady as he always had before. And he did. He held her and he waited until she was calm again.

Booth turned when he heard cars coming up the dirt road and frowned at the endless caravan of FBI SUVs and Ambulances, lights and sirens going, as they careened toward them.

"You would have been dead for sure if these bozos had gotten here before me." He grumbled, mostly to himself.

Brennan laughed quietly followed quickly by a cough. "I missed you." She whispered.

Booth looked down and she was staring up at him, her eyes more blue than he had remembered. He could see the emotions swirling behind them and for the first time in a long time, he smiled.

"Missed you too."

Her eyes danced, sparkled the way they hadn't done in years. With a light tug, she pulled his head down toward her, and her lips grazed his.

He probably should have been angry, or at least wary of her. He should have handed her off to the paramedics and disappeared in a cloud of dust like he'd grown so accustomed to doing.

But he didn't.

Instead, when he felt her lips on his, still soft after all this time, he pulled her closer and kissed her deeper than before. Deeper than he had any of the women that had come before her, any of them that came after. His heart soared and his mind raced, her shoulder throbbed and her blood pounded, but their kiss stopped time.

He found that he wasn't at all angry, which surprised him because it was an emotion he'd gotten used to, like an old pair of shoes. He felt that maybe, finally, this time…he could find true happiness. And he had hope. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had hope.

He did hand her off to the paramedics, but he stood by her while they questioned and cleaned her up. And when she refused the hospital, as he knew she would, he took her hand and led her to his car. And they disappeared in a cloud of dust, side by side.

He had saved her, now she would return the favor.


End file.
